We planned Weston's memorial service very carefully. We wanted both personal and traditional elements, and I think we achieved it. Every song, every reading, every item, every photograph meant something. I have all of the notes from the service in Weston's chest (which is finally finished!), but I want to record them here as well. From time to time, I'll post about a specific part of Weston's memorial service. So that's what you're getting today, along with some other stuff.
Here is a poem that Shannon's sister Monica read. I am so glad that she was a part of the service; she has been there for our family since my pregnancy struggles began, and we will never forget her kindness. And I think she might also win the prize for being the first person to visit me in the hospital. (Unless Liz was first. Gotta give credit where credit is due!)
We took out a line or two that we didn't identify with but kept the rest intact.
On Pain
by Kahlil Gibran (from The Prophet)
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
that its heart may stand in the sun,
so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at
the daily miracles of your life,
your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen. (For lack of a better literary term, I call bullshit on this one. No one would choose the pain of losing a child. We left this line out.)
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided
by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burns your lips,
has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
I started drafting this post about ten days ago, but the poem is appropriate today, given the ups and downs of the last few days. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Truer words were never spoken. The pain of losing Weston is bitter, so bitter. Thinking about the pain I have experienced, currently experience, and will continue to experience is bitter. But the pain is a vital part of life. Pain is better than numbness: it means that I am alive. To experience pain, one necessarily has to experience joy. I fear that my joy at having Weston died when he died. But having him with me for a little while is infinitely better than having never known him at all.
Yesterday, I went to CVS to print some photographs of our family taken with Weston after he had passed away. I tried to be discreet, but it's difficult to be discreet with photos when you have to pay for them. Another customer standing a few feet away from me saw them and asked, "Is that your baby?" Oh, here we go...I said yes. He said, "Beautiful," and then added, "Good luck." Then, "I remember when mine were like that. Now they are 28 and 32." He was very gracious, and I didn't have the heart to tell him the baby in the picture is dead, that he was dead when the picture was taken, that this man's children were never "like that" because they are still alive, and that it is way too late to wish us good luck. No one saw my tears, and I kept the painful truth to myself.
What was lovely, though, was this grizzled, somewhat rough-looking man complimenting me, a stranger, on my baby. Dead babies cause most people to recoil; even the mere phrase gives us chills. But he called my dead baby "beautiful." And Weston IS beautiful; death doesn't change that. So, there was loveliness in the pain.
Today I took Caroline to story time at Bookmans, my favorite used bookstore in the world, which happens to be two minutes from our house and next door to our grocery store. In other words, I go there all the time. This particular story time is new, so there was only one other little girl there with her mother, in addition to Caroline, the teacher, and me.
About halfway through story time, the other little girl mentioned her brother. I felt a pang of sadness, but it passed (the mother had already mentioned that her son was older). For about two seconds. Then Caroline said, "I have a brother too." Oh no. The teacher said, "Oh, you both have brothers! What is your brother's name?" Caroline said, "Weston." I just closed my eyes and prayed the moment would pass. The teacher didn't quite understand Caroline and asked her to repeat Weston's name. Somehow, I said "Weston." Then Caroline said, "He's my baby brother." Naturally, the teacher said, "Oh, that's wonderful...". So, I couldn't let things keep going as they were; I just said, "He died" and started stroking Caroline's hair to keep myself from completely breaking down.
The teacher apologized, squeezed my foot (I was in a chair, and she was sitting on the floor), and Caroline said, "Stop doing that." So I untangled my hand from her hair. After story time was over, the teacher introduced herself, told me that I get a hug, gave me a big hug, and said, "I am so sorry for your loss."
It was excruciating. Yet, the teacher was very kind, and the other mother chit-chatted with me a bit after she found out I have a dead baby; I appreciated them not treating me like I am a freak. But more importantly, Caroline talked about her brother. I LOVE that. It is heartbreaking that she doesn't know that her siblings are actually supposed to live with her, grow up with her, love her. I dread the day that she realizes the magnitude of her loss. But she knows that she has a brother, and she wants other people to know about him. Once again, there was loveliness in the pain.
So I think that these two little experiences are the totality of circumstances Gibran was talking about. ("Totality of circumstances." I'm still a lawyer, through and through.) Joy and pain go hand in hand. There will NEVER be any joy associated with the loss of Weston. He lived a very hard life; it was far from joyful. However, there is no greater joy than new life, than bringing new life into this world. Even children who live bring great joy AND great pain. That is the human experience. The ups and downs of the human experience are better than flat, detached numbness any day.
The day ended on a relatively good note. I ran into a good friend while out running errands. She was not (and never has been) scared of me. I appreciate that more than I can say. And I went to happy hour with a couple of friends, which, like last time, turned into happy multiple hours, but I'm certainly not complaining. We talked about Weston, of course, and some of my struggles, but still had a great time and laughed a lot. Those moments are few and far between, but I look forward to them so much. Sometimes I just need a break from my oppressive grief.
To conclude, I'll mention the final line of the poem: And the cup he brings, though it burns your lips,
I started drafting this post about ten days ago, but the poem is appropriate today, given the ups and downs of the last few days. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Truer words were never spoken. The pain of losing Weston is bitter, so bitter. Thinking about the pain I have experienced, currently experience, and will continue to experience is bitter. But the pain is a vital part of life. Pain is better than numbness: it means that I am alive. To experience pain, one necessarily has to experience joy. I fear that my joy at having Weston died when he died. But having him with me for a little while is infinitely better than having never known him at all.
Yesterday, I went to CVS to print some photographs of our family taken with Weston after he had passed away. I tried to be discreet, but it's difficult to be discreet with photos when you have to pay for them. Another customer standing a few feet away from me saw them and asked, "Is that your baby?" Oh, here we go...I said yes. He said, "Beautiful," and then added, "Good luck." Then, "I remember when mine were like that. Now they are 28 and 32." He was very gracious, and I didn't have the heart to tell him the baby in the picture is dead, that he was dead when the picture was taken, that this man's children were never "like that" because they are still alive, and that it is way too late to wish us good luck. No one saw my tears, and I kept the painful truth to myself.
What was lovely, though, was this grizzled, somewhat rough-looking man complimenting me, a stranger, on my baby. Dead babies cause most people to recoil; even the mere phrase gives us chills. But he called my dead baby "beautiful." And Weston IS beautiful; death doesn't change that. So, there was loveliness in the pain.
Today I took Caroline to story time at Bookmans, my favorite used bookstore in the world, which happens to be two minutes from our house and next door to our grocery store. In other words, I go there all the time. This particular story time is new, so there was only one other little girl there with her mother, in addition to Caroline, the teacher, and me.
About halfway through story time, the other little girl mentioned her brother. I felt a pang of sadness, but it passed (the mother had already mentioned that her son was older). For about two seconds. Then Caroline said, "I have a brother too." Oh no. The teacher said, "Oh, you both have brothers! What is your brother's name?" Caroline said, "Weston." I just closed my eyes and prayed the moment would pass. The teacher didn't quite understand Caroline and asked her to repeat Weston's name. Somehow, I said "Weston." Then Caroline said, "He's my baby brother." Naturally, the teacher said, "Oh, that's wonderful...". So, I couldn't let things keep going as they were; I just said, "He died" and started stroking Caroline's hair to keep myself from completely breaking down.
The teacher apologized, squeezed my foot (I was in a chair, and she was sitting on the floor), and Caroline said, "Stop doing that." So I untangled my hand from her hair. After story time was over, the teacher introduced herself, told me that I get a hug, gave me a big hug, and said, "I am so sorry for your loss."
It was excruciating. Yet, the teacher was very kind, and the other mother chit-chatted with me a bit after she found out I have a dead baby; I appreciated them not treating me like I am a freak. But more importantly, Caroline talked about her brother. I LOVE that. It is heartbreaking that she doesn't know that her siblings are actually supposed to live with her, grow up with her, love her. I dread the day that she realizes the magnitude of her loss. But she knows that she has a brother, and she wants other people to know about him. Once again, there was loveliness in the pain.
So I think that these two little experiences are the totality of circumstances Gibran was talking about. ("Totality of circumstances." I'm still a lawyer, through and through.) Joy and pain go hand in hand. There will NEVER be any joy associated with the loss of Weston. He lived a very hard life; it was far from joyful. However, there is no greater joy than new life, than bringing new life into this world. Even children who live bring great joy AND great pain. That is the human experience. The ups and downs of the human experience are better than flat, detached numbness any day.
The day ended on a relatively good note. I ran into a good friend while out running errands. She was not (and never has been) scared of me. I appreciate that more than I can say. And I went to happy hour with a couple of friends, which, like last time, turned into happy multiple hours, but I'm certainly not complaining. We talked about Weston, of course, and some of my struggles, but still had a great time and laughed a lot. Those moments are few and far between, but I look forward to them so much. Sometimes I just need a break from my oppressive grief.
To conclude, I'll mention the final line of the poem: And the cup he brings, though it burns your lips,
has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears. My last post discussed my current struggles with a seemingly absent God. With God being absent, Weston seems farther away too. But these experiences over the last couple of days have revealed Weston's closeness. And, as Gibran writes, knowing that the Potter, or God, has shed tears on my behalf makes me feel a little less alone in my grief. Maybe God is giving me a little nudge...A girl can hope.
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